


Our Version Of Humanity

by Bugsyboo1313



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Red Band Society, Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Hospitals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-03-04 12:33:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3068057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bugsyboo1313/pseuds/Bugsyboo1313
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Everyone thinks that when you go to a hospital, life stops. But it’s really the opposite. Life starts. Life is precious and it must be protected at all costs. Even a life as…as pig-headed as a Winchester’s." Sam Winchester, a boy in a coma, takes us inside life at Ocean Park hospital to look at the lives of a remarkable group of teens. Team Free Will to be precise. Please review!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not A Cas-ual Change

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: Language, descriptive images
> 
> Rated: T
> 
> Fandoms: Red Band Society, Supernatural, Sherlock, Doctor Who
> 
> Summary: Some SuperWhoLock characters live in a hospital all the time because of their conditions. But after getting to know each other, especially after a new kid named Castiel comes in as a new roommate, they for a strong bond as best friends that can never be divided. But there group suddenly becomes interested in hunting monsters and ghosts, a trick the Winchesters learned from their father.
> 
> ~ I do not own any of these fandoms. They belong to their rightful creators. This story was written for entertainment purposes only. ~
> 
> |* Please take time to write a short review on my story. It's always great to hear feedback so I can improve. *|

**CHAPTER ONE**

_NOT A CAS-UAL CHANGE_

* * *

Those who grow up with a deprived childhood, lacking the imagination of becoming an astronaut, a ballerina, or perhaps the president of the United States as a profession in their adult years, never know what it feels like to appreciate the little things that come along later and make our lives enjoyable. It's harder to decipher expectation versus reality, and you don't completely learn to read people. Trust me; if you don't develop at a young age with these concepts in mind, you'll learn it the hard way as a grown human being.

Sadly, I am one of these unprivileged children. Of what I recall from my early life experiences, there was nothing related to a happy family living in the country with a house and a dog and a white picket fence around the yard. Bedtime stories didn't exist, rarely were there opportunities to find an interest I was hooked on, and I found myself constantly moving from town to town across multiple states to a new home. Well, at least there was school, but having to make new friends frequently when you're the new kid, I've found it to be strenuous.

I am over 100% jealous that my brother was lucky enough to have such a grand opening to his life. But at the same time I would regret being him. He didn't have much of a childhood either, and he still doesn't.

Neither do I.

All I can say is that he had the better deal of being born first. He spent four years of his life connecting the bond between himself and our mother, whereas I only knew Mary for half a year. What can an infant who hadn't even begun to walk yet remember about the delicate features of their female parent? She passed away on the exact day that I turned sixth months old: November 2nd, 1983. Of course, two brothers wouldn't find that suspicious until our father brought it up to Dean and confessed that Mary's past would become the future road he was determined to follow, no matter the additional pain it burdened us with.

That's not the type of pain I'm concentrated on now. The type regarding our family is emotional, but mine is physical. Yes, I am a broken human.

For those little pieces of cheer that make life positive, I know I need to take them in while I have the chance. I must fight with all of the strength I have left to make the best of my situation.

The car crash wasn't his fault. Dad's, I mean. He made it out alive, only broke an arm as it slammed into the driver's side door, but I on the other hand narrowly escaped death. I'm gripping onto existence with shaking, twisted fingertips at this very moment. You have limited actions when you're in a coma.

Yep, this is me, Sam Winchester, lying on top of an adjustable bed in a hospital, talking to you from a coma. Neat, huh?

On the subject of such a fixed state, you only have the ability to listen to everyone. The idea of responding is unheard of; essentially in my condition you're locked inside your own mind, and burrowing out is like trying to pluck individual strands of grass from a professional-sized soccer field one at a time.

I guess it's a sin that runs in our family's blood; the disadvantage of receiving a massive, threatening, physical interruption from your body. Living in a hospital ward is not exactly a pleasant definition of a decent time. What sucks is that our father, John, is not always around because of his job, and so Dean and I are left alone in this crammed place. Los Angeles, California is where we're settled at the moment, and we've come to find that many interesting things were at stake for us when we arrived.

However, when Dad is here, he gives me words of encouragement as he sits by my bed. Dean doesn't know that he comes here; he'd probably punch me if I kept that secret from him while he was awake. I hear every syllable, process the rhythm of his speeches, even picture him rubbing his palms together in anticipation. What he tells me is linked to a song from his youth; I can still hear the notes as he hums them before getting up to leave every visit when he's able to drop by quickly. I love jamming out to the rock tune of the band Kansas. Funny enough, that's where I'm originally from. Lawrence, a tiny area out in the middle of nowhere, but it was my perfect edition of a comfy home spot. It's always the lyrics in the first line of the song that matter the most.

Carry on my wayward son.

* * *

I figured since I am the least expected person to communicate with you, my version of this story would be the most amusing. Only, there are multiple tales to tell from the most extraordinary band of people, and that's the best part to share.

Here's the thing about hospitals: believe it or not, there is a way to always fit in for who you are. There are two sides of you: the one side you're willing to expose to the universe, and the other that's stuck in the tiniest corner of you so it won't come out with your personality. That's because you don't want anyone to know that version of you.

And I guess that's the way things started out in my family. Dad wouldn't tell me what he did for a living. He just always rushed off to leave Dean and me alone for days at once, and I was always left out on family news. It wasn't until Dean turned sixteen that issues arose, yet John still carried on with his skipping out on us. A few months after my older brother was in his mid-teen years, he felt this ache in his brain while he was attempting to sleep. So as a result, this safe house has become our new place to chill for a while.

Dean was diagnosed with a brain tumor like many other patients in the world, and I just so happened to drop by to see him when a monstrous truck crashed into our 1967 Chevy Impala. Sirens blared, Dad was unconscious, and frankly I was amazed I was still breathing when I was wheeled through the halls of this medical center. But the complications during transports drove my body to sink into an unresponsive state, and so here I am now. Only three doors down from my brother's ward and living in this research institute on a daily basis.

But I've learned to appreciate many of the other patients here during my stay. They're all about the same age, but I'm the youngest being 12. Each of us have a unique disability or weakness, but it's really our support for each other that keeps us going. But it wasn't until we were able to step into each other's shoes and see the way we battled through life that we realized how lucky we patients were when we stuck together.

So I guess that's where our story begins and mine restarts.

* * *

It's funny to think that a new face can change the course of your life. At least, that's how it was particularly for my brother. I recall sometime back in late September that he came to be known to us, or "the sixteen-year-old who doesn't understand any reference" kid as we joke. But I suppose that's what life's lessons are for; in truth, that's what stitched him back together after he went through a period of time as a broken soldier.

His physical appearance is what would have struck you when you laid eyes on him for the first time. Ruffled hair in the back, making his dark brown locks look like kitty cat ears, pale skin, mostly short and scruffy, not much muscle, and the bluest eyes you've ever seen. The clothes he wore consisted of a spiffy black suit, a long sleeve button-down shirt, a navy tie he always wore on backwards, and a tan trench coat that rested just below his knees. To the presence of a stranger, he would have looked lost weaving between the waves of the crowd pouring out the front doors of the hospital. Luckily, directories exist so he was able to work his way up to the top floor, number five, where all the drama goes down.

I find it remarkable that there are choices that you make, and then there's the decisions that make you. For him, I bet he had a bold mix of both, considering his background history was shaky and the weight he bore on his shoulders later came to bite him back in revenge. I knew because I could see the guilt reek off of him, but truthfully, that's what allowed him to open up so much so we, the band of friends, could patch him up again.

The main entrance lobby where all of our rooms are located is built like a maze; the circular interior has walls sticking up in various places where busy doctors can examine computer monitors, counters mimic the set-up of the wide-open space, and here and there are waiting areas with coffee machines and comfy chairs to make yourself at home. The perimeter of the home base where doctors manage files and check in people at the front desk is bordered with a handful of hallways that run off to a new ward. The patients' bedrooms also surround the upper hospital floor, and my resting facility is closest to the aid of the nicest nurse one could ask for, Ms. Morstan. She tends to all the children in hospital; that's what she loves to do, and I seem to have taken the role as her favorite coma boy. She enters my room at least three times a day, begging for a sign of progress to show up on the screens that litter the space around my bed.

I'll get back to her later. It's the arrival of our new colleague that strikes me as a fantastic starting point to our story. The newbie strolled up to the curved counter to approach one of the guys who works the afternoon shift mostly, Craig Owens. From the gleam in his irises he wanted to gain attention quickly.

"Hi," he blurted out immediately, rather awkwardly.

Craig looked up, his white jacket making a swishing noise where it came in contact with the marble. He smiled sweetly and opened his mouth to speak. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

There was a moment of silence before the teenager gave his request, the initial reason of why he'd visited the hospital. "I'm here to see Dr. River Song. I've got some sort of disease and heard she's the best expert in the country. Please, I really need to hear her advice."

Craig seemed confused and shifted in his seat before firing out his next question. "Are your parents here?"

A sigh left the boy's lips. "No. They're both gone. I'm alone, and I really need to find some way to get better. A cure, or just some recovery time ought to do the trick."

Craig let out the look that said 'I'm your mother and I don't think you're going to do anything young man.'

"I've already got an appointment with her," the teenager added, pulling out a file folder that had been hidden within his trench coat during his ride to the hospital. "She said that I should meet her in the E.R."

The doctor looked highly impressed before standing up to escort the patient in the proper direction. It was then that the connection between me and him was first recorded; as Craig led him past the wall-length window belonging to my room, there was nothing I could do but hear his delicate footsteps pat on the wood floor. My other friends, I say that loosely, were chit-chatting on my ward's couch when they all stared up in awe at the newcomer. One of those loungers happened to be my older brother, Dean. He'd picked up his buddy John Watson on the way back upstairs from school classes following lunch, and I guess my place was the ideal location to kick back and relax.

And yes, on an extra note, there is a school in this hospital. There isn't something this recovery clinic  _doesn't_  have.

"Check out what the cat dragged in." Dean noticed the fellow in the trench coat to inform John who had his back to the entrance. His elbows rested on his knees while the older Winchester (I know I can just call him my brother, but I'm spicing up my language a bit) raised an eyebrow with his chin in synchronization. Dean's very laid back, as one could deduce from his posture and his right arm flung over the back of the couch. His left hunting boot tapped the ground a couple times in appreciation, and John swiveled around in his beanbag just in the nick of time to capture a glimpse of the petite, unknown face before he and Craig rounded the bend.

"Huh," Watson amusedly smirked. John turned his head around to get an opinion from the taller boy. He spoke up first however. "We got ourselves a new recruit, maybe?"

"I don't know," Dean sighed. "He looks a bit preppy to be running around this place, don't you think?"

John narrowed his eyes before checking his own attire. You couldn't blame him for walking around a hospital in jeans, a plaid shirt, and a black jacket. Dean and John Watson almost dressed similarly everyday on purpose. I say Watson here with reason so as not to confuse John Watson, our friend with John Winchester, our father. There are also multiple people with the same name Mary, but let's not go there right now. Not in the middle of an interesting topic to gossip about. But back to clothes, Dean and I favor plaid as well, and any dude is willing to admit that jeans are the way to roll in a ward full of nurses and doctors. The jackets, the long-sleeved buttoned-down shirts of some sort, solid or patterned, all of it was relatively the same. Hell, if someone wanted they could mistake  _them_  for brothers.

And I say John walks with respect, since I don't really want to insult him and point out his disease right to his face.

"How're you holding up?" Winchester questioned Watson, tracing the outline of the furniture to entertain himself. "Are the lungs and all still sucking?"

"Are you kidding me? It'll be a miracle if they ever cooperate." John shifted to sit in a comfier position before adjusting the tube in his nose. An oxygen tank in a forest green bag stood next to his right hip. "Honestly, it's bad enough going down to the lower floors to go to school five days a week, but who knows what will happen in the near future to my health. I'm just trying to make each hour the best I can. Make it count, you know?"

Dean smiled.

A new sound entered the square space as a fourteen-year-old girl came flying from nowhere, her bright, vivid ginger hair flowing behind her. Her black converse sneakers squeaked under her as she waved at the two gentlemen lying around in my bedroom. And with all the strength I had, I wished I had been able to at least say hi to the humorous girl who just darted into the room.

'Pond', as we've nicknamed her, flashed her eyes as her shoulders rotated to give Dean and John the clue that she had just seen the 'no-named kid yet', his temporary title as of that instant. The moment she parted her lips to speak, John flattened the blond locks on the top of his head so it swept over his skull in a perfect curve.

"So, what have my boys been up to this afternoon?" The thick, Scottish accent came out like pure heaven to Watson's ears, but Dean sometimes found it difficult to comprehend. To clarify, in case you didn't know, Dean and I are American, John is British, and the red-head I've just introduced is Scottish.

"Amelia Pond," Dean chanted, pointing at her smooth, pale cheeks. "Presenting herself fashionably as always." Wait for it, a joke is coming, I assure you. "Have a heart and come join us, will you?"

"Save it, hot stuff," Amy shot back, giving up on the comebacks and rolling her eyes as a result of going along with the comments. Her heart monitor beeped and she smacked it to get the device to shut up. Amy's heart disease has been shaky so far since she arrived at Ocean Park hospital.

John interrupted so the conversation didn't stray off onto a ghastly road. "What's up, Pond?" he asked politely, stroking his jaw while staring up at her.

"We've got ourselves a bit of a problem," she informed them, placing her hands on her hips and sinking over to one side. Her fingernails were painted an alarming shade of purple that made some boys do a double take and rub their eyes. Amy's curls in her hair bounced as she spoke. "It appears that our sociopath has pissed off another nurse again."

"Damn it!" John swore, standing up as quickly as he could muster with lung cancer, "I told Sherlock to lay off!"

"What the hell did he do?" Dean wondered, jumping up and grabbing his coat, which he'd been sitting on.

Amy pursed her lips and then left her mouth agape. "I think they said he got into the supplies and blew up some chemicals."

The frustration, or more like disappointment came from Sherlock Holmes' partner. Now you can refer to Dean and John as best friends, but on the other hand Sherlock and John are just plain impossible to detach from each other. Inseparable. Sherlock's got this weird fascination with solving 'mysteries' all throughout the hospital, and John runs an online blog that updates their progress from month to month. I think it's absurd, but you can't blame a teenage boy for trying to discover some entertainment in this cooped-up place. Especially when he's fifteen and has ADHD.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean yelled, and he was out the door in five seconds flat. Don't mind the swearing; it'll come up quite often. He halted himself before he ran off down the hall to fire back a remark towards Amelia and John. "You guys follow behind me. I'll go have a chat with Holmes, but then I'm coming straight back here. Sammy needs some comfort."

Ah, yes. My brother's adopted title for me. Sam became Sammy, and I tried to argue in the beginning since it embarrassed me, but I lost the battle tremendously and now must learn to accept his alternate name for me. However, Sammy does have a nice ring to it.

And so, since the three musketeers left me, that brings our story back over to the new kid, situated at this point in an emergency ward, waiting for his doctor to emerge. And the moment she showed up, Doctor Song didn't make a relatively good start with her 'patient'.

"I don't know who you are," River exclaimed, dressed in a black dress and holding a clipboard tucked under her arm. "There is no patient in my files under the name Castiel Novak."

Identified, Castiel raised his eyes, his tie loosened all the way now so it draped over his shoulders casually.

"I don't understand," River Song replied to his silence, rustling papers from another employee, "who checked you in?"

"You mean at the front desk or before I even came here?" In this case the boy in the fancy suit wasn't trying to be smart or anything; he just wanted to know what she meant behind the meaning of her question.

"To make myself clear," the doctor coughed to empty her throat," which of your parents allowed for you to come here initially?"

Castiel bit his bottom lip and the corners of his mouth formed a smile. "Neither," he stated truthfully.

The adult resembled someone who had just seen a ghost. "Pardon?"

The teenager licked his chops.

"Sorry?" the doctor repeated, leaning in a bit closer.

"I submitted the application. I referred myself. You see, something is sincerely wrong with me and I need to know what. No progress will get done unless you're my doctor. I can't wait months just to get into this place. So I got an appointment today versus later when faults might arise. I took precautions into my own hands, and by law I can't be turned away from the E.R."

River actually expressed a grin. She beamed and nodded her head slowly, as if she had taken it all in throughout the talk steadily. "I'll give you some credit, sweetie."

Castiel moved suddenly and handed over the stack of documents he had in the folder the entire time. "That's everything I've collected from previous doctors, only nothing in there suggests I have some sort of weakness. But I'm sure there is a…disease of some sort. I just…haven't been the same lately."

The worker flipped a page over and came across his personal information. "Well Mr. Novak," she read on the first line, "I'm not sure if I can take you is the issue. Where are your parents?"

His heart sank. He knew that phrase was going to be directed at him at some point, but he had an answer ready regardless. "My mom…she died a long time ago. I barely knew her to tell you the truth. And my dad is somewhere out in the country. I would go to him for help, but there's only a slim chance that I would be able to find him in this complex world."

"I feel you," Doctor Song said, placing a comforting palm on his knee. "Also, I'm very sorry for your loss. I had no idea —"

"It's okay. No big deal." He played with his own hands, intertwining his fingers for a deeper effect.

"Hey," the adult spoke up, "I admire your persistence to get better. Not a lot of patients have your sort of personality."

"Yes but can't you see?" Castiel shrugged his shoulders and made creases appear in his forehead. "I can't go back. There is no 'home' for me anymore. And without hope, what can any teenager accomplish?"

Without another word to their heated discussion, River stood and placed a hand on the door frame. The metal was ice cold against her skin.

"And you know what else?" she left him hanging. Castiel lifted his sorrowful head, keeping the curiosity to himself. "Those patients who won't take no for an answer are my favorite." Leaving him to his own thoughts, the doctor smiled and took off down the hall, being stopped by a secretary along the way.

* * *

Switching over to the actions behind the workers here in Ocean Park hospital, Castiel was about to be granted a new home right then and there.

"Well, I'm just about to close out my shift," Craig Owens said, sliding back in his chair that had wheels on it behind his desk.

"Well before you go, you might want to hear the news Doctor Song has in store." That's the other Mary I was planning to welcome to your attention. Mary Morstan, the head nurse in the building, who I mentioned earlier. She's got a humor to her, and she defines her job as trying to make the children as happy as possible, and to make sure we don't get hurt in any way.

"I'm sure you can't top the news that Miss Clara Oswald gained a pound today," Nurse Rory Williams announced.

"Oh, well that is positive, but she can share her tale right now. Here she comes," Mary told all the crew.

"So," Doctor Song paused as she approached the table, "Craig, I'm going to need an MRI for Castiel Novak tonight or early tomorrow morning. We've got ourselves another keeper."

"Ah, a new edition to the Ocean Park family, huh?" Rory inquired.

"Yep. And a very sneakily tricky one at that," River agreed. "As a result, where do you think we should put him?"

"I think I know the perfect spot," Mary inputted, winking in the doctor's direction.

"I bet we're thinking the same thing. Ms. Morstan, would you like to speak with Dean?"

"It would be my pleasure. I'll go see what I can do."

"Thank you, sweetie."

But of course when Nurse Mary went to meet my brother in his room, he wasn't there. She made a tisk tisk noise and mumbled under her breath. "What kind of mischief are you in now, young man?" Instead of running into the correct person when she turned around, the shy Molly Hooper nearly slammed into her chest. That was a play on words considering Molly has breast cancer.

"Hello Ms. Hooper!" Mary politely greeted, stabling the young fourteen-year-old so she didn't collapse. "Say, you wouldn't happen to know where Dean Winchester is, would you?"

"No," the other ginger girl almost stuttered, her ponytail swaying from the force of the collision. "Last I came across him was at lunch."

"Oh. Well, thanks for your help."

"Sure."

Mary bid her goodnight and decided to get back to work for the time being. Meanwhile, I had a visitor, and not the one you're thinking of. John Winchester had not stopped by; instead, it was interesting to have the girl with an eating disorder, Clara Oswin Oswald knock on your window even when there's no one else to keep me company and I can't exactly respond.

"Hey, Sam," she said gently. Clara tucked her dark brown hair behind her ears and skipped to stop beside my bed. I wanted to jump when she grabbed my hand, but my body was locked in place to the mattress.

"Just so you're aware, there's a new kid joining us today. From what I've picked up, he seems nice." She began stroking my bangs with her fragile hands, making sure I was as cozy as possible. "Also, Dean said he'd come say hi to you in a little bit. He promised."

That, my friends, is what sucks about being trapped in a coma. No chance at all of having a leisure conversation.

By the way, Clara, thank you for the update.

* * *

Dean finally returned to his room after a satisfying dinner with John and Sherlock, stuffing his face with a delicious burger, his favorite food. I don't know how he'd be able to live if he had an eating disorder like Clara, particularly since he's in love with food. I bet he'd marry it if that choice was available, even if all he eats is grease practically. He sat on his bed, contemplating which Bon Jovi record would be a good suggestion to listen to that night when Nurse Morstan stood in the archway.

"Hey, Dean. Can I talk to you for a second?" My brother threw his music onto the sheets and clasped his hands together, indicating that she was allowed to enter. His black t-shirt and grey plaid pajama pants told the adult that he was ready to settle down for the night.

"So. I'm sure you're aware that we have a new patient in our vicinity."

"I've taken a little notice, yeah."

"Well," she halted, feeling nervous of his reaction, "he needs a place to lie down while he stays here. Doctor River Song and I concluded that he would fit in your room." Dean gaped at her in a your-not-kidding tone.

"You'll have a new roommate," Mary added, holding out her arms to add enthusiasm.

"Why does he have to stay with me?" Dean interjected, pointing his finger directly in the center of his chest. "He might not like me at all. Besides, Molly, Clara, and Sherlock all have individual rooms. I don't mean to destroy his bubble, but hey, even Sammy is lonely. He could stay with my little brother instead for all I care."

"But that's the point. If he is moved to Sam's room, he won't have anyone to talk to. Therefore, if he's with you, at least he'll make a new friend quickly." The older Winchester brother was silenced as her heels clicked to signal her departure. Not ten seconds later, his doctor came around the marker-colored floor-to-ceiling window with the unknown teenager close behind.

"Evening, Dean," River Song declared, and then stepped aside for the new boy to come into view. "This is your roommate from now on. Meet Castiel Novak. Castiel, this is Dean Winchester." She patted him on his collar bone and offered the patient a late supper. He accepted, and Doctor Song ran off while Castiel examined the intricate and packed area, calling, "Excuse me, boys," as she vanished. Dean sank back onto his pillow, and even after the newcomer remained mute, he decided to make a first impression.

"Are you just going to stare at the walls for the next twenty minutes or are you going to say something?" Castiel turned his neck so they clashed with their eye contact; his vibrant blue irises peered into the dazzling green ones for the first time.

"Sorry," he muttered. "I'm just not used to being around people who are roughly the same age as I am." Dean hummed as if he found it funny.

"Look man," he eventually got up the courage to spit out an apology, "I'm sorry if you heard any of that previous conversation. To tell you the truth, I was out of my mind. I am most of the time, literally. I made assumptions before even getting to know you for myself." He rolled over to lie on his left side and propped his body up onto his elbow, facing his roomie's vacant bed. He liked claiming the sleeping quarters closest to the window for his own.

"Well, I know how you feel. This was very abrupt, having me dumped on you like that."

"I'm sure I'll be able to handle one roommate." He chuckled and swallowed hard to try and dislodge the lump in his throat. "On such a thrilling note," he said to kill the silence, "why are you here exactly?" His deep voice seemed mildly stumped.

"Honestly," Castiel considered, sitting on the edge of his mattress and resting his elbows on his thighs, "I'm not sure yet."

Dean raised his eyebrows to show he was dazed. "You don't know?" he asked, making sure he hadn't misunderstood the response.

"Nope. Not now at least. But, my odd mood changes definitely suggest my body is freaking out," he further informed, tilting his head to one side.

"Great. Just please don't start having fits in front of me or something," Dean pleaded, setting his personal watch on the bedside dresser.

Castiel breathed out of his nostrils. "No promises," he stated.

Quiet.

"So, the bunker?" Castiel questioned, noting the titled written near the doorway. The entire floor-to-ceiling wall was covered with artistic drawings, and indeed the message right before you walked in the door read 'Welcome to The Bunker.'

"Oh, yeah." Dean huffed. "That was  _not_ my idea," he confessed, blaming it on someone else. "You can thank Amelia for that one."

"There are some interesting symbols on the glass mixed in," Castiel noticed, and Dean looked up as if his new roommate pointed out something he shouldn't have.

"Oh…" he flatly and stupidly let out, since he had to explain his reasons without making Castiel freak out. "Don't worry, I put them there for a reason."

"Which is?"

"Why would I tell that to the guy I just met?" The shorter boy sank down in shame. "You've got to prove you're worthy, then maybe I'll supply you with all the intricate details."

More silence. My brother is horrific at talking to others about sentimental business.

"If you don't mind me asking, what's your condition?" The kid in the suit took his turn to demand answers.

"Remember how I told you that I'm not too swift?"

"Yeah…?"

"I've got a tumor in my brain. The cancer's died down for a while now, but it still threatens to spread unexpectedly." He rubbed his stuck-up hair, and Castiel saw a glare reflect off a silver ring wrapped around Dean's finger.

"To just put it out there," the Winchester continued, "I don't want to die. Not before I get old at least."

"Well, Dean, sometimes all you need is a little faith now and then."

* * *

The next morning, Saturday, brought about new motivations in the blink of an eye. When you're in a hospital, you have to find something, anything, to help keep you going. Whether it's family, an inspirational quote, or a silly fairy tale, nevertheless it applies. Dean woke bright and early to head to the cafeteria for breakfast, and it wasn't a newsflash that Castiel insisted on following him like a shadow. Once the two teenagers were situated in the service elevator, the shorter guy willingly raised his voice volume so it became an antonym when compared to the transportation lift lowering levels.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot," the Winchester confirmed, staring up at the sky, which was seen through the transparent roof above.

"How do you live knowing any day you could fade away?" Dean found the alarming blow shocking and restrained from blurting out a rubbish response.

"For real, I try to forget about things close to me. I shut them out as if they don't exist."

Castiel looked over at him, as if he'd hurt an innocent animal.

Dean rolled his eyes. "I'm kidding," he teased, slapping the skinny kid on the back. "That's the exact opposite of what I do. I actually hold my family close, you know, to my heart. I know they can help me get through this fight."

The express elevator stopped at the next floor and a familiar face got in the lift.

"Sherlock!"

"Morning," he replied grumbly, obviously hinting that he hadn't slept that much during the night. "Who's this?" he wanted to know, spotting Castiel's ruffled hair like a sore thumb.

"Cas, do you mind if I call you that?" Dean took precautions, asking permission before going on. His roommate seemed okay with it and offered for the Winchester to resume. His scraping palms created friction as he brought the unmet humans together. "Cas, this is Sherlock. Holmes, meet Castiel."

"Pleasure," the sociopath extended his arm out to shake the newbie's.

"Same to you," the sixteen-year-old inquired.

"Man, I bet John wishes he could move into The Bunker with you, Dean," Holmes told his opinion, rocking back and forth on the soles of his feet. "Seriously, whoever came up with the plan to put John and Amy in the same bedroom ought to be fired." Dean snickered.

"Hey, let's throw this guy a party tonight," Sherlock suddenly blurted out.

"Huh?"

"You know, to welcome him to the club. Nice knowing you now you have to live in a hospital for however long, that kind of thing."

My older brother pondered the proposal.

"Come on, Dean. You of all people know how to construct a party in this place."

My family member swiftly punched him on the upper arm. "True that, my genius friend."

* * *

Amy and John decided to hang out in Molly's room later.

"So has anybody read what we're supposed to for English yet?"

"Heck no!" Amy admitted that way too willingly. "I'll make you read another boring book about disgusting, transmitted diseases and see how you like it." John tried not to burst out laughing from the corner.

"Seriously, it's like they undoubtedly wish to purposefully insult us sick kids," Molly spat out.

"Tell me about it," Watson agreed as he leaned back in his chair, his hungry stomach grumbling.

"Hey guys!" Clara exclaimed as she strolled into the room. Everyone greeted her back in one long, chimed note. "I have an update," she began, acting like a little kid about to give a presentation. "That new boy, Castiel Novak? We're having a welcome party for him tonight up on the roof."

"Shoot," John released under his breath, but Molly heard him anyways. "Climbing stairs. Sometimes I hate having only half a pair of lungs that function."

Clara hopped excitedly. "I've already ordered some sparkling cider, so it should get here this afternoon."

"Wait,  _you_  ordered the drinks?" Amy challenged. "You won't even take a tiny sip."

"I don't need to be reminded of my everlasting problem, thank you very much."

"Well, thanks for the heads up, Clara," John told her, speaking out before the girl's temper exploded. The malnourished girl left the room to be safe in a huff.

John gave the red head with the brighter hair a glare. "What?" she shot back.

"God, we're so nice to each other," Watson remarked.

* * *

Dean stood outside my bedroom around 3:00 P.M., Cas standing over his shoulder. Once he stepped in the doorway, I knew he had something to tell me. Something major.

Castiel leaned against the far wall as Dean took a seat beside me, right arm holding onto the bar on my bed. "Hey, Sammy," he whispered softly. If I could have moved, I would have smiled in that instant.

"I know this may be hard to take in, and I'm sorry that I didn't tell you sooner, but I'm having surgery tomorrow morning." The machines to my right beeped in a steady rhythm. "Apparently the tumor decided to grow again." Oh no, I worried. I didn't want Dean to break down just telling me this.

"But everything will work out, I promise, Sammy," he assured, grabbing my limp hand. "Doctor Song suggested I do chemotherapy, and that will surely halt the growth, at least for a while." I wanted to sigh in relief. A tear escaped from his eye as he kissed my hand. "See you soon, Sammy. I really wish you could come to the party tonight." He wiped his face and then stood up to leave, first turning his attention to his new friend situated in the door, who had been listening to my brother's entire speech.

"By the way, this is Castiel. I thought you might like some more company." He swooshed his arms through the air to beckon the shorter boy over.

I felt an unfamiliar finger graze my forehead, but the touch was strong. Heartwarming.

He smiled and spoke his first sentence to me. "Hello, Sam. It's a joy to meet such a person with so much potential."

His hand suddenly began to shake violently, and when he tried to take a step away from the bed, his knee gave out under him.

"Whoa, Cas!" Dean shrieked, bending over to aid the fallen teenager, "what's going on? Are you okay?"

It was difficult to get back to his feet, but with a few heaves my brother managed it. "The only logical assumption is that it's a symptom of whatever disease I have." Dean stared at the floor in fright, hurt all over his pupils.

"Come on," the Winchester provided some help, leading Cas toward the empty bed that shared the space in my room. "Don't move," he ordered, once the kid had sunk onto the mattress and cleaned his sweaty cheeks. He left the room in a flash and returned rather hastily with a clear, plastic cup, forcing himself not to spill the liquid.

"I guess the fun has started," Novak admitted.

"Hey, don't let it get to you," Dean advised. "You've got to let it go, for your own good. Oh and, you might want to gulp this down," he instructed, handing over the cup filled with water.

* * *

The out-of-nowhere attack Cas had wasn't enough for the party to be cancelled that night. And yay for him since he got better. It would have sucked if he couldn't have gone. The celebration was for him after all.

After Dean had his chat with me, he went straight to John and Amy's sleeping ward to get some last minute information. Castiel had been taken to a nurse and was being given the truth behind his incident in my room.

"Hey, Sherlock," the proud Winchester called, seeing that Holmes too was also taking some time off from finding things to cure his boredom, "did your older brother Mycroft happen to snag the key card to the roof for us?"

"That's what I got right here in my paw," he shared, spreading his fingers wide so Dean could see.

"Excellent!" An air fist pump came out of my brother. "I'll just need a bit of assistance with getting everything prepared, and then we'll be ready to roll."

"Sweet," John commented.

"Yeah, I'm going to get the full scoop on the deal with Cas' situation before we head up there tonight."

"Wow, look who became loyal in less than 24 hours," Amy teased.

All she got in return was a serious, "Shut up."

It's not every day that you can spend time with your friends on the roof of a hospital in the middle of L.A. And what's even better, the space had been laid out to resemble the coolest basement ever. Lounge chairs, outdoor benches, coffee tables, you name it.

"Oh! This is fantastic!" Molly expressed as her head peered over the wall's edge to observe all the skyscrapers surrounding the building. Lights usually used for outdoor home decorations were draped around the circumference of the sitting area, but not too many as to distract from the outstanding view.

"The sunset is simply gorgeous," John examined, the gradient pink, orange, and navy colors absorbing into his sweater, or jumper, as it's known in Britain.

"So what are we waiting for?" Sherlock asked. "Let the party begin!"

As the night sky shifted and the hours ticked on, Castiel sat on his own beneath the stars, checking the lights that flicked on below in the various structures. It startled him when Molly Hooper came to join him. She provided a blanket for him and placed it over his shoulders, blocking the cold from his body. "It gets kind of chilly out here in the evening," she warned him, and he shared a small smile as a message of thanks. "I saw you over here all alone, so I figured I'd come be a productive friend." Many of the other hospital members in their group were engaged in various activities around them. Dean clinked glasses with John and they shared a dose of sparkling cider together, Amy was drawing with a pen on Clara's arm, and Sherlock sat by, watching and giggling all the while.

"Alright everyone, gather around!" Dean's low voice boomed through the thick wind, but Cas helped Molly to her feet and they assembled as a whole in the jazzy sitting arrangement. "Uh, I have something I'd like to share with you all, but to start things off, I believe Castiel has a report we all deserve to hear." The new patient stepped forward and tried to ignore the miniature pain that began to form in his jaw.

"So, as you all know…" His pace was slow to ignite his dialogue, Dean watching him closely with his inhumanly possible shade of green eyes. "My accident early today caused me to get all the information about why I am here today. Standing on a rooftop, having a grand time with the most random bunch of people you could expect to become buddies." There were a few exchanged snickers. "But I have been given all that I need to know. And the results show that I indeed have Parkinson's disease."

Clara bowed her head in respect. The first to compliment on his statement was, surprisingly, Amy. "We're all here for you, Castiel."

"To Cas," everyone chanted, raising their glasses. The last to do so was the Winchester, who with a wide grin, held his drink up for the longest amount of time.

"I take it Dean has the stage now?" John clarified, and so my older brother, the leader of the crew, braced himself to say something he knew would be hard to get out. But, he specifically wanted to draw the group's focus on the red hospital bands that coated his left wrist.

"I realize," he confirmed, letting out a shaky exhale, "that I've been carrying these around for a while now. It seems like it's been ages. And, after much debate, I think they need to be let go."

"This first one, which unfortunately has lost a bit of color, was from my first trip to the E.R. I remember that night was when I first met John." The blond smiled, his beanie perched significantly to cover his head full of fluffy locks. "The instant his first joke left his mouth I knew. I knew we were going to have a special friendship." He removed the bracelet from his arm and handed it down to Watson with care, who took it with the memories flowing in his brain.

"The second one is for Molly. This if from my initial surgery. And, I want you to have it." Hooper took the band with tears glistening on her face.

"Now for Clara, this one is when I first started to recover from the operation. I think it suits you because I believe in you." Oswald's head tilted. "I believe you can recover from your vicious disease." Another red paper bracelet was passed down the row to its new owner.

"Amelia…" Dean shifted between his feet. "This band means a lot to me. My dad gave it to me when he had to get his strength back from the car crash with Sam. But now it's yours, because your personality almost leads me to think that you remind me sometimes of —"

"Please don't say your father," Pond cut him off.

"Ha, no," Dean confessed. "No. You just come across sometimes as a little,  _interrupting_ sister." Amy had to smirk as she took the gift from him.

"To Sherlock, the band that I received when the treatments were originally given to me. Because man, there sure as hell must be a cure for your dullness out there in the universe somewhere." Everyone had to laugh at that input, even me, at least in my head, but that's still saying something.

There was a lingering suspense before there was only one member of the fellowship remaining. Dean's fingers scanned the white strip on the glossy surface.

"Cas…" He lengthened out the name like it took much effort, but he wanted to ultimately prove a point. "This, right here," he said, holding it up for all to see, "is the most important band of them all. I wore it when my emergency surgery came up. And I want you to know that you're not alone. My skin crawled when I found out about your condition today, and like skin, I believe there are many layers to you that have yet to be revealed." Dean outstretched his arm to pass on his special band, and Cas looked into his eyes to find that warm, blazing glow once more.

The rest of the speech was for all seven of them to tune into. "We few, we influential few, are now a family. For all we do for each other, we all have choices. You can choose your own fate and not be ruled by destiny. Free will is our way of action. My brothers, and sisters," he added, making sure the females weren't left out, "my friends, my family, we are a team. Team Free Will. For he who decides to stick with me till the very end, shall be an idol in my mind. A hero in a story worth remembering."

* * *

In the end, there was one more person who needed a little recognition.

Me.

All was quiet till Dean sat on the edge of my bed, holding my hand and trying not to cry. A burning candle lit on the far side of the room made the space smell of mint. "Sammy, you deserve to have one of these. I should've told everyone else the reason why tonight, but I decided to save it so it was just between you and me." There was a moment of silence before he got up the courage to keep going.

"You, Sam, are my real brother. Forever. This band I've carried with me since the beginning. It started the entire collection. And you, Sammy, were always there for me from the start." He slipped the red plastic on my wrist and adjusted it to a presentable position.

"You keep fighting, Superman. There's always something to fight for, you know that. I only wish to be half the man that you are, my brother. Sometimes, life is just about surviving what drops on you when you don't want it to. And if anybody can do that…"

"It's  _you_ , Sam."

* * *

The ways I see it, nothing can go wrong when you have a group of friends around to root for you during recovery. A hospital is the perfect place to define your story; in other words, what you're going to mean to the world. Out of all the things that exist, you can't mean nothing. You're always important.

And me? Well, a group of seven, odd but unbelievable people consider me as their family. I never would have met them if I hadn't gone into a coma in the first place.

There's always a positive side to the negative alternatives in life. You just have to find them. Choices follow, but they're for you to control. That's the best thing, right?

Free will. The strongest weapon of survival, with love in a close second rank.


	2. Two Sides Of The Same Coin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I apologize for not writing anything in forever. It's not easy when you're at the end of your junior year of high school. Life demanded a lot from me. But...ta da! Here's a brand new chapter. Enjoy! *

 

**CHAPTER TWO**

_TWO SIDES OF THE SAME COIN_

* * *

The intelligent American poet Carl Sandburg once stated, "Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful lest you let other people spend it for you." From my perspective, I believe as a young teenager that it's important not only to learn as much as you can about yourself, but it's also key that you at least try to understand other people as well. To shorten up my enhanced language, you simple need to walk a mile in their shoes.

Mind you, some styles of shoes are harder to hike in than others, both literally and figuratively. For instance, it might be a breeze to tour the shoes of a person having a living on the school track team, but a soldier who just returned home from a war and lost a leg might not be so effortless. The world does not always satisfy your wishes.

I dare-say that's all that my brother had on his mind the night before his surgery. When you go down under while they work on you, all you focus on is finding the light at the end of the tunnel, no matter if you see it or not. Whether you know if there's a future for you or are unsure, the escape route is always the course to take. Sometimes, when you get stuck in between life and death like me in terms of my coma, the middle, you pray that when the fight ends and you wake up that you come back to the world with amnesia; just forget about it all and throw it in the trash.

The window in The Bunker let a dusty glow penetrate its borders that evening, and Castiel stared at the ceiling blankly while Dean picked at the chipping skin around his fingernails. A record sent waves of static through the air, and the door had been closed so the two roommates were enclosed thanks to the sturdy barrier.

The alarm clock across the sleeping quarters on the bookcase read 10:34 P.M., the sparkling cider from their party gently sloshing around in the Winchester's stomach. He let out an inaudible burp and got an uncomfortable feeling in his nostrils as the bubbles rose up in his throat. The aftermath of the party reeked on both of the boys. He could see the glowing red dot on his emergency call button out of his peripheral vision, the summoning device lying on the corner of his mattress. Dean was tempted to announce that he was going to bed, but Cas spoke out loud sooner, his fist tucked behind his skull.

"Does it hurt?" The older boy stopped dead, the blanket draped around his shoulders forming new wrinkles as he craned his neck.

"You want to elaborate?" he questioned.

Cas hesitated and exhaled dramatically before carrying on. "I perfectly understand if you wish to remain silent. Surgery, I mean."

Dean hugged his knees tightly into his chest and squeezed his eyes shut so fiercely that he saw brown spots. How was he supposed to explain the process to a kid who hadn't even been at the hospital for 48 hours?

"It's hard to piece together an accurate comparison over the sound of your lingering curiosity," he let out, sliding down on his bed so he too had his gaze fixed on the roof. "But if you really want to know, fundamentally it hurts more mentally than physically. Painkillers man, I'm telling you they're life savers. That sounds controversial, but I mean it with all honesty."

"I believe you," Novak interrupted, playing with his bare feet under the sheets.

Dean opened his mouth a hair to consider what else to tell the other patient. He felt his steady breaths release and skim over his dry lips. "The worst part is knowing. Knowing that when it's all over, some part of you will never remain the same. You'll be damaged emotionally, and you never know if the change did any good for you in the end. To hear the news that it all was a misfortune tears at you in ways that…there are no words for."

He paused to restrain himself from cracking his voice, blinking back tears. "That's all a kid in a hospital wants to hear. Four little words. 'Everything will be okay.' It's a miracle how one tiny phrase can alter a sick kid's future."

The Winchester was pouring out facts so freshly that his listener had no clue how to react.

"Thankfully, it's only a matter of time before the memory stops prodding at you." Castiel rotated his cheek into his pillow to stare across the room. Dean's face was ghostly pale and lost, green irises broken and bearing a wounded mask.

"But I can let you in on something," he hinted, tilting his focus ever so slightly in the direction of his new friend.

"If it's not too much to ask."

"Not at all. And this is your first lesson about what I wouldn't let you in on earlier. You will always be yourself. No matter how many times they cut into you, how many times you bleed, how many times you want to die rather than suffer through all the pain it causes you and the people who love you, you'll come out of that operation room just as you were initially."

"Interesting theory," Cas smiled.

"Yeah. I'll let you in on a little secret. You look in the mirror every morning and see a familiar face staring back at you, but the overall appearance and everything else beneath it isn't you. Your skin, your cells, none of that matters. What defines you is your soul. No one can ever take that from you; no doctor can scratch it, no blade can pierce it, nothing can touch it. It's protected, because a human soul is a valuable and fragile thing of creation."

Cas was still tuned in, but his eyelids had slowly drifted closed as he took it all in soothingly, his spine sinking into his padded bedding.

"I want you to remember that, Cas," Dean said, offering some advice to the novice, "always. A soul is the greatest thing you can possess. Essentially, a great mass of energy can neither be created nor destroyed. And what's a soul besides your own personal energy? It's one on the most remarkable things on this earth. You are unrepeatable. The magic in your bones is all your own, no one else can claim it."

Castiel Novak hummed, a warmness pulsing through his veins, as if his very own soul was fluttering in his chest.

"Nah," Dean muttered, rolling over and thinking the way he gave his speech was rubbish. "Go to sleep before you tell me how sappy that was."

"But I didn't think it was sappy," came the echo from the other bed.

Dean darted his eyes around in an uptight gesture. "Really?" His tone implied that he respectfully disagreed.

"When you talk like that, how could I ignore it?"

"Well that's…comforting."

"I'll take it as a sign. A heads up."

"If you choose to."

"It was actually kind of…moving."

Dean wanted to make his roommate take that confession back. Although, he got right back at him. "Oh please, don't try to bring up some cheesy version of 'The Fault In Our Stars' here." Sadly, Dean's attempt to avoid such storylines is almost how this tale ends up playing out. Minus all the intense personal relationships and what not.

Cas squinted and scrunched up his eyebrows. "I don't understand that reference," he admitted.

My brother's whole face expanded in disbelief. After a few long, drawn-out breaths and a chuckle or two, he responded with, "Wow. I'd never thought I'd hear that come out of your mouth."

Cas didn't ask and flicked the switch on the lamp to his right. Before turning away to face the decorative wall, he eavesdropped on his buddy who was still lying in a frozen pose.

"That's unbelievable," he sing-songed, running a muscular hand through his jagged hair. But Castiel grinned, knowing that the older boy who was planning to undergo surgery in less than 12 hours was amused. The newbie had picked up a lot from his first weekend, and if one thing was blatantly obvious, it was the fact that while Dean tried to be unbreakable on the outside, he was a giant teddy bear stuffed with humor on the inside.

* * *

Sure enough when Cas woke, the startling sun blinding his sluggish daze, Dean had left an unmade bed behind and no doubt had been summoned by Dr. River Song for the operation. The time was five past nine, and if he hurried he could maybe catch his roommate before he was wheeled into the surgery ward. Slipping on a flimsy pair of sweatpants and a polo shirt, Cas didn't bother to fix his untidy brown locks as he rushed out in a jiffy, his Adidas sneakers thumping on the wooden tiles.

That's one of the things that is glorious about living in a hospital: you can remain in your pajamas whenever you wish at any hour of the day. However, going downstairs to breakfast a) makes you feel embarrassed, and b) technically it's a 'public facility' along with multiple others since tourists and what not drop by once in a while. Regardless, you still see children screaming and prowling on the hospital property in pajamas round the clock.

If you could have turned the dial and set Cas' run on 'slow-motion', it would've reminded you of one of those dramatic movie moments, like the hero rushing to save the lost princess or something similar. He flew past the physical therapy room, down the observation deck hall, a large bridge connecting buildings that overlooked the city, and paced himself as a roundabout route came to dominate his vision. The silver railings had glass panels from their underneath side to the ground, and a cutout space dropped off below with a staircase to the lower levels. Lightly jogging around the outer edge, a square space emerged before him, which could have been titled as a waiting area. The blue couches with golden pillows were relatively unoccupied, but it wasn't hard to spot the bulky, lonely figure of my older brother on the nearest seat, hands clasped together while his elbows dug into his knees.

"Hey, Dean!" Cas slowed to a halt, heaves of air becoming uncontrollable. His call was greeted with an automatic response from his colleague, the patient resting in his chair, dressed only in a blue hospital gown and a checkered-pattern pair of boxers. Castiel, his polo shirt buttons looking like they might burst off the fabric, lifted his left wrist to show off the red paper band tied around his arm, passing on the message that no matter what Dean went through that day, 'Team Free Will' would be there for him.

The Winchester cracked a smile, showing his new buddy his own accessory that gleamed on his smooth, tan skin. It looked like the shorter boy was going to take off running, but instead he galloped over and joined my brother to keep him company.

"How are you doing?" the kid with the blue eyes questioned after a much-too-long gap of silence.

"Besides the fact that I'll be unconscious in a mere number of minutes and there's a 50% chance I won't wake up again? I'm grand," he sighed sarcastically, rubbing his eyelids. The fragile newbie didn't know what to say in return. The large windows on the outside wall let the morning glow spill onto their laps.

"Dean, you can't leave. Not before I just got to know you."

My sibling snorted. "Kiddo you barely know me," he commented.

"Well, that doesn't mean I can't be here by your side. To support you. And to protect you."

The green irises became fuzzy. "Protect me from what?" The slow, tense query rolled off his tongue.

"Not  _from_  anything. I —"

"He means to protect your heart, Dean." The indicated teenager snapped around to lock his gaze on Doctor Song, who stood in the entrance to the surgery ward.

His head shook back and forth. "How do you mean?"

"Don't you see? You've got a little brother who needs you.  _Friends_  who need you," she spoke, putting emphasis on the word. "All of us are here to make sure you don't damage yourself in any way. You wouldn't want to be responsible for breaking their hearts by leaving this world now, would you?"

Dean froze, focusing on the floor, his mind racing with a jumbled pile of considerations.

River Song strolled down the hall a ways to stand by an empty bed, ready for her patient to hop on. The Winchester turned back around to the person sitting by his side, his expression blank and concentration gone.

"Whether you believe it or not, she's got a point you know," Cas inputted.

"Peachy," my brother considered, and he leapt up to accept that his operation time had arrived.

* * *

"Damn," John swore, muttering to himself as his PS4 controller fell onto his thighs. 'FIFA 15' was paused on the television, the final score of the soccer match showing that Watson had lost 3 – 1 playing Sherlock. Amelia sat on the arm of a recliner while Molly had her nose buried in a book, listening to the best friends argue over stupid penalties throughout the duration of the game.

"And the crowd goes wild! It's Sherlock Holmes for the win!" Pond commentated, throwing her arms in the air enthusiastically. Her fingers suddenly rapidly typed, her mobile phone dancing in her possessive grip.

"How the hell do you text that fast, woman?" John asked, his oxygen tube creeping around his body as he twisted his spine.

Amy's chewing gum popped as she formed a bubble with her teeth. "Please," she rolled her eyes, "with technology these days, it's not hard to catch up on basic skills." The blond hid his face so she couldn't see his alarmed reaction.

Molly felt brave enough to step in and interfere. "Who indeed are you even texting?"

"Someone we all know," Amelia assured, swinging her legs over so they folded neatly.

"Amy, please don't leave us all guessing. It's really not your area," Sherlock piped up.

"Hashtag don't care," she replied, using typical teenage social media language. "Greg Lestrade, you clueless peeps."

"Rock on!" John happily exclaimed. "Is he coming to visit soon as he promised?"

"Give it a week," the red-head suggested.

"Hang on, you all do realize what is going on now, correct?" Molly directed.

"Senseless humans?"

"Now let's not get too critical, Sherlock!" Watson punched him for his rude remark.

"Pestering nurses?" he offered as a replacement option.

"Abysmal pop artists whining while they sing?"

"Tacky fashion statements?"

"Rigged video games?"

"Irrelevant movie sequels?"

"Oooh, selfies?" Sherlock was a notch away from lunging at Amy in frustration.

"No!" Molly cut the three of them off, brushing off all of their reminders.

"Me dying?" I felt like secretly adding in my mind, at least being included some way or another.

"Haven't you even considered that Dean is having surgery today?" A switch had been messed with; the entire sleeping quarters went noiseless.

"Oh you mean like  _now,_  now? True," Pond whispered, letting her electronic device slide down onto the cushions.

"Shouldn't we be there for him? After all, as if it hasn't already, his life  _is_ about to change."

"He's experienced it before though," Holmes notified. "So if there's any one of us who knows how to pull out of a fight, it's him."

"Then why are we all sitting around like a bunch of idiots today of all days?" John pointed out, making his thumb move the video game controller's joystick in circles.

"I believe the proper term you're looking for is 'idjits."

Now would be the appropriate time to introduce you to the man we all identify as 'the uncle' of Ocean Park Hospital. Bobby Singer is considered a family member to all of us, and he hangs around the building in case we ever need someone to talk to. He keeps saying that one day he'll donate a good chunk of his money to the hospital, but I'm convinced that he doesn't have a large sum. Mind you he's not broke, but he doesn't earn much running a garage right up the highway. A portion of it is also because he tends to drink beer often, and even if he never had kids of his own, he's the kind of man you'd want as a father. A scruffy, ginger beard matched his hair, which he always kept hidden under a baseball cap.

"Bobby!" The team of teenagers chimed a synchronized chorus as he made his presence at the door.

"Hey, gang!" His cocky attitude showed that he was tempted to dissect their conversation from the clues he was given with eavesdropping. "Now tell me, why do you all feel like a bunch of idjits?"

"Well, nobody considered this, until miss mouse over there brought it up, but Dean's having surgery today," John spread the news, leaning forwards in his seat. Hey, I did! He's my brother!

"Oh boo hoo, princess. Cry me a river. He'll live." Yep.  _That's_  Bobby Singer for you.

"Yeah, and in case you haven't noticed, Castiel isn't here," Molly pointed out.

"Neither is Clara," Holmes added. "I'm sure she's just stuffing her face full of cookies." John looked around in horror for two reasons.

"Oh for God's sake, how many times do we need to remind you, John? Not your  _sister_ , Clara. The Clara who's currently here, living in this dreaded hospital."

"Shut up, I know" he mumbled. "That was an unnecessary comment though. Don't make fun of a girl with an eating disorder. You can't even relate to what she's going through."

"Who's this Castiel you keep discussing?" Bobby raised an eyebrow, flannel shirt parting open to reveal his slightly chubby stomach. Give him break, the guy's in his late forties.

"Oh you aren't caught up on the news?" Amy wondered. "If you really want to know the scoop, Dean has made a new,  _pal_. He showed up not five days ago."

"Balls!" Molly tried not to laugh too harshly. Just for your information, that's like Bobby's code for something being wrong. Or you can prefer for it to be his most favored swear word.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"This must mean I'll have another one of you troublemakers to look after."

"Yeah, but that's your job, right?" John said to clarify.

"That's what I'm here for." They all smiled at his soothing affirmation. Dead silence filled the bedroom, and I was glad I wasn't present for the next question to be answered. Not something a teenager wants to freely talk about; no doubt downright boring.

"So how was school today?"

"The usual," Molly gingerly spoke up for the rest of them, marking her chapter and setting the object aside.

"Well, how about we make up for it tonight? I'll put together a satisfying dinner for us all."

"Deal," John announced first.

"I'm in," Amy raised her voice, taking no opportunity to miss out on food.

Bobby turned to leave but paused to finish his thought. "Oh, and be sure to bring along this Castiel fellow. It's about time I met him."

* * *

I suppose I can't leave out such an important character to this plot forever. You have to meet my dad, John Winchester, sooner or later. It may as well be now. He had to enter the building anyways that day to sign the papers and confirm that Dean's surgery was officially going to happen, so it shouldn't have been a shocker to Nurse Morstan when she walked into my room and found my father gripping my hand.

"Mr. Winchester," she stuttered, doing a double-take the minute her brain comprehended his appearance. "What a pleasant surprise."

"If that's what you'd like to call it." He had a deep, manly voice, his leather jacket slumped over the back of his chair.

Mary flexed and contracted her hands repeatedly. "Is this a bad time?" she gingerly wondered.

"Yeah…" my dad admitted, hesitating. He squeezed the crook between my elbow. For understanding how other people feel, you first have to consider how you feel inside. And in my case, feelings are all I've got. Once the female adult had vanished, he found it safe to speak up once more.

"Hey, Sammy."

"I miss you, Dad." If only he could hear those words from my own mouth.

A clank noise told me that he'd set something metal on my bedside table. "Well, I have some thrilling news," he started, tracing the line that made up my forehead. "My service in the Marines has officially ended. I am no longer required to follow orders."

"Dad, that's fantastic!" That doesn't have much meaning when you can't jump up and wrap your arms around him. My father had been at war for years, but his long break on leave showed that he was recovering from injuries, both physical and mental. Now we didn't have to worry about him being shipped off any longer.

"I figured you should have these," he continued, patting whatever he'd laid down on the piece of furniture to my left. Right, his dog tags.

"One for you, one for Dean," he commanded, scraping them against each other. Their encrypted text read:

_WINCHESTER_

_JOHN_

_306-00-3894_

_TYPE AB_

_NON-RELIGIOUS_

He'd actually received a Bronze Star and a Purple Heart for his military services.

"So from now on, I promise to stay right here and protect my boys."

His comfort felt like a broken lock in my mind; one step closer to bursting free out of my cage. He broke out in a fit of tremors and couldn't collect the nerve to spit out the information of significance. The gulp was so loud Katniss Everdeen from  _The Hunger Games_  could have shot it down with one arrow in a flash.

"I think it's about time you were told the truth, Sam. About your mother." My eyes wanted to bulge, but they were glued shut. "When you were younger, you just started asking questions to Dean. He kept begging you to stop, but we could never hold back your curiosity." I was grinning in disguise.

"You gotta understand something. After your mother passed, all I saw was evil. Everywhere. And the only thing that I concentrated on was keeping you boys safe. Sadly, I couldn't accept the fact that…you and me, we're just  _different._ "

You can imagine that my throat would have croaked in that instant. It's awkward when long, sentimental chats are one-sided.

"But I get it now, Sammy."

"Get what?" is what I truly wanted to ask him.

"Look I realize that I haven't been there for you lately. Or Dean for that matter…However, from here on out, I am going to do my best to become a better father." I wanted my eyes to boil up in tears.  _Any_  kind of emotion would have been more fitting than just lying there in a coma.

And then he began to sing the marvelous rendition of my favorite Kansas song, the tune peaceful sounding to my ears.

* * *

"Alright, Dean." He was on his back, staring up at the ceiling and avoiding the blazing lamp that was pointed right on his face. Doctor River Song stooped over him, cap covering her bushy hair and mask tucked under her chin. "You know the drill," she told her patient, pressing her knuckles into the pillow. About five wires snuck under my brother's hospital gown, and another one was at the ready to help him breathe after the induction was over.

"Now, do you remember what I told you about the surgery process?"

"Yeah. All's good," the Winchester assured her.

"Excellent. The key is simply to remain calm." He smiled and wiggled his bare toes. "So, can you do something for me while we get all the supplies prepared?"

"Sure thing."

"I know you've probably used a ton already, but I want you to select a happy memory. A time, place, or person that makes you feel uplifted. Some case when everything seemed,  _perfect._  Can you do that for me?"

My sibling licked his lips and showed the doctor his pearly-white teeth. "I'm on it," he informed.

"Great." She winked and left the teenager alone to his deep thinking.

* * *

Clara Oswin Oswald's bedroom is filled with spare pieces of paper pinned to the walls. They're drawings, theories, lists, all drawn or written in blue pen. There's ink stains on her desk, red string connected to other dots on the bulletin board, and most importantly, a clay model of a box.

A 1963 blue police telephone call box.

It's partially why we all think she's insane. But she tends to just sit there for hours on end, trying to decipher what all of it could mean. She claims it's been seen by dozens of other people in America, but there's no proof. No evidence.

But what can I say? She's convinced. And a thirteen-year-old girl will not let that go so easily. There's an exception to that in this specific situation, however. Some massive weight was on her shoulders, and it was approaching right around the corner.

"Time for your weigh-in," Craig Owens pronounced. See that twist I just threw on you?

"Yeah. I'm coming," she sheepishly responded, though she definitely dreaded the event.

It felt a little awkward to follow a college-aged man into the exercising room, but at least there was a slim amount of relief when Clara spotted Amelia walking on a treadmill, her hands secured onto the handlebars.

"Are you ready to pick up the pace?" her instructor pressed.

"Seriously? You can't keep bugging me about that. If I remotely go over the limit it might ignite a spasm. You sure you want to be the guy who will be known by my dreadful incident?" She flipped her electric locks and didn't so much as touch any of the buttons.

"Alright, Clara." Craig placed a hand on the complex scale and nodded for her to follow his lead. "Step on up. Let's see your progress."

Acting as if it were a rigorous task, Oswald tapped one foot onto the platform and placed the other one beside it. She held in her inhale, crossing her fingers that the numbers would stop blinking and show a decent average.

Craig gasped as his mouth hung open. "Look at that!" he exclaimed, pointing to the screen, "you gained a full pound!" The patient's heart fluttered.

"Clara, I am so proud of you," he acknowledged, and she stepped down to embrace her nurse in a hug.

"I'm going to make it aware to all the other employees straight away," he barked, and within a jiffy his legs had carried him down the nearest hall.

"And…we're done here," Pond ordered, leaping off the machine and rushing over to her fellow group member. "So, you gained a full pound, huh?"

Clara shrank back as if Amy was about to clobber her. "Yes," she said rather quietly.

"Brilliant…" she grinned, swaying back and forth like she couldn't believe it. "Give me a high five girl!"

The slap of their palms together reminded me of the last thing I heard before the car crash happened; the sound of metal crunching from the impact of a huge force.

* * *

The shuffling of shoes was heard on the tiles as a bunch of doctors came to surround my older brother, wearing protective gear and securing observation glasses onto the bridges of their noses. Nevertheless, the first to come into his peripheral vision was River.

"Selected that positive memory yet?" she asked, bending over to check his condition.

"You can count on it. When we were little, Sam and I dressed up as Batman and Superman and flew around our house. Eventually we ended up on the shed roof."

"Oooh, risky little devils, are you?" Doctor Song giggled, poking him on his collar bone.

"We try."

"Alright, well we're going to begin the operation now. All I want you to concentrate on is that memory. Hold it close. It'll secure you in a place while we fix you up for a while. Keep you nice and comfy."

"Will do."

"That's it, sweetie. Now on my count," she began, raising her arm to give the signal to her partner. "Ten — nine — eight — seven —"

By that point, Dean had already sunk under, unconscious.

* * *

"Really?" Everything was a mass of white, glowing and wide. Pure white. "I was just in surgery…" he mumbled. The usual sofas and manager desks were missing; they had been removed from the bottom floor of the hospital, and instead all that remained was a blank space. The sky above in the entire ceiling sunroof showed a pleasant, puffy set of clouds, ones that could have been conjured up by an artist's delicate paintbrush strokes.

"Sheesh, I know I've been here before, but it doesn't have to look the same every damn time!" he screamed to no one in particular, and the echo of his boasting tone reverberated back at him. The structure was all still there: spiral ramp in the cylinder tower, elevators just past the restrooms, the cafeteria round the bend, all of it. A soft, pitter-patter of feet welcomed him, but the Winchester couldn't figure out where it was coming from. Every instance he'd been here, not once did another being disturb him.

And then he glanced upwards and saw something that startled his teased brain.

"Hi, Dean." His green eyes had soaked up all the shock in the world.

There I was. Yes,  _me._  Standing in a matching pajama shirt with pants, red band clipped around my wrist and everything. My hair was parted in the middle, and it was the first time I had laid eyes on my sibling since we'd arrived at the hospital.

My brother had trouble saying my name, like it was permanently removed from his existence. "Sammy?" he clarified, shuffling around as if to get a better view.

"Boy is it good to see you."

Dean grabbed his spikey locks in tuffs. "I'm losing my mind," he told himself, his watch surface reflecting the sun rays.

"Hey, I don't know how much time we have," I stated, suddenly appearing by his side as if I could apparate like in  _Harry Potter._  It made my brother jump out of his skin. "Why don't we talk or play a game while we have the opportunity?" I suggested.

"I don't understand," Dean muttered. "Is this some sort of sign? I was in surgery! This has never happened to me before! Never did you pop out of nowhere!"

"Ever heard of changing things up a bit?"

" _A bit?_  Sam, this is like receiving a blow to the head."

"I see your point. Sorry I disturbed you." I found his focus violently directed towards me.

"Are you kidding me? Don't apologize, Sammy. I've never been happier to see you." There was no chance to come back with a saying because he had me in a hug too tight to escape from. His presence, his company, was soothing as I let it sink through my skin.

When he let go, I offered him a little tip. "Just don't freak out on me or something like a fangirl."

He chuckled. "You've got my word."

"So," I started unsurely, "would you prefer chess or monopoly?"

"Well, looks like I'm going to be stuck here for a good chunk of time. Hell, let's break out the cash." I laughed at his mild humor.

"It sure does feel nice to hear you speak again, little brother." He ruffled my hair and I pushed him away.

Before I could snap my fingers and make the board appear, Dean swayed, gripping onto my shoulder as he tensed up. I'd never seen him so worried.

"Sam, I feel dizzy," he told me, and I took that as a warning.

"Hey!" I yelled, hooking my arm aside his hip to give him some support. His balance was uncontrollable; his knees had transformed into jelly. "Dean!" Too late. He was already on the ground, arm over his chest, and I knew his mental picture, his trip of staying in between life and death, had cut off sharply. Sooner than he would have enjoyed.

"It's okay, Dean," I comforted, crouching beside his limp figure. "I'm not going anywhere."

I never let his hand go until his physical body faded into nothingness.

* * *

A skull. That was the initial thing Castiel saw when he entered Sherlock Holmes's dingy room on the third floor. There was a large collection of junk scattered around in piles: chemistry test tubes, old cups of tea, moldy jars of jam, you name it. A secluded violin was stationed in the far corner, and an expensive laptop was thrown onto the leather couch.

And the one and only himself sat curled up on his bed, head tipped back and eyes closed. Novak thought he was possibly meditating, but he stood corrected when his knock on the window served as an interference.

Holmes watched him scrupulously for a few moments before throwing his opinion out there. "Never thought I'd catch an adrift puppy like you in this room of all places."

Castiel tried to ignore the offensive outburst and crept into the square area, hands clasped behind his back, hidden. "Uh, there is a reason why I came, regardless of your efforts to push me away."

Sherlock ruffled the sheets. "Alright. Spill the beans."

Out of the corner of his vision Cas spotted a yellow smiley face, clearly having been spray painted on the wall. It was with great effort that the boy finally got the courage to speak out. With a trembling lower lip, he asked, "Has anyone failed to make it back?" His knuckles shoot, warning signs of his Parkinson's disease coming back.

Sherlock paused, clearly knowing what was on the newcomer's mind. "You're talking about death, aren't you?" he checked to make sure. Cas nodded, frightened.

Holmes's stomach grumbled. He grunted as a reaction and apologized. "Sorry, didn't have breakfast today. It's just a…symptom," the curly-haired patient admitted, unwillingly.

"Symptom?"

All the questions needed to be answered, only for Novak's sake. "You can't exactly expect perfection from a teenager with ADHD now, can you?" Sherlock sighed, poking at the thread stitches in his duvet.

Cas stared at his bony knees, drained of comebacks. "I'm…I'm sorry," he finally managed. They both sat with an intense gap of air between them, the older boy slightly beating himself up with his behavior. To escape his miniature torture, he decided to get back on track.

"Um…I don't mean to budge in, but will you answer my previous question?"

"Yes. Right. Get…easily…distracted," Holmes mumbled, not forming complete sentences. Cas inhaled, preparing for the blow to come like a hurricane. "We've never had anyone close to us leave," the taller kid shared, and there was a fraction of a second where the other regained his wavering emotions. "There's no doubt that, unfortunately, people do come and go weekly here. That's just the environment." There wasn't an appropriate response to Holmes's fact.

"Think about it though," Sherlock urged. "There's always a proper time to die. That's just one of the stages of life. And, even if it may be impossible, we must learn to embrace it when it does approach us."

He slapped Cas on the back harder than was intended, rising from the mattress and crossing the room to retrieve an object from his desk.

"For you," he exclaimed, handing over a crinkled envelope to the boy who tried to steady his violent arms. Novak took it in confusion, breaking the seal and slipping his fingers inside. He expected a letter to emerge, but instead it was a page of sheet music, bearing no name, but the words 'Written For Practice By Sherlock Holmes' caught his eye.

"You wrote this?" Cas beamed, pointing to the treble clef in the top left corner.

"No." The older kid's mind shut down a little. "I copied the notes from one of my favorite songs onto the paper. It's your job to figure out the song and how to play it."

Pause. "And what if I can't read them?" the new friend wondered.

Sherlock smirked from across the bedroom, his hands in his pockets and his gaze scanning the darkening sky through the window. "I believe," he said, taking a few moments to build up a dramatic effect, "you will come to read the notes along the way. You must observe, not just see."

* * *

Dinner Bobby Singer had promised followed about a little less than three hours later in an office-sized lounge on the floor below us. Everyone attended, even Clara, except for us Winchester brothers.

Bobby had removed his baseball cap and had his sock-protected feet perched up on the light brown coffee table. He occupied one of the two recliners, and the rest of the group was spread out on a set of couches. The only person who sat on the floor for pleasure was Sherlock.

The smell of rice and steak filled the boarded-in room, and Clara Oswald picked at her dinner with a silver fork, leaving a perfectly-cooked piece of meat untouched.

"Ya know, if Dean were here, he'd gobble down that steak without hesitation," Singer explained, flashing his gaze at the girl's plate. The only sound besides the silence was Molly sipping her lemonade.

"How's he doing, by the way?" the uncle asked curiously, no expecting any uplifting updates.

"Still under," John reported. Cas slowed his chewing, the rice fitting between every crevice in his mouth.

Bobby removed a flask from inside his plaid jacket, taking a swig of whatever liquid was in its contents, probably beer or whiskey.

There was a loud crash as Amy dropped her knife, missing her knee by inches. "Can you please keep a secure grip on a weapon even as small as that?" Singer belted, which made Holmes snicker. "I'd rather not be a witness to a stabbing."

"A self-stabbing even?" John joined in.

"Look, I just don't want any of you kids accidently hurting yourselves." Molly and Clara both exchanged small smiles of appreciation.

"Now that you've all been fed, you kids better get your asses back to level five before the nurses go all sappy on me."

"Ah, they all know we're here," Sherlock told, standing up regardless and flattening out his blazer.

"Well, we've certainly had a wonderful evening," Molly admitted. "Thank you so much for a satisfying meal."

"Don't mention it," the bearded man spoke, sharing his loving smile at their departure.

* * *

"I feel fat," Amy let out, rubbing her lower abdominal area that contained a little bump from consuming too much delicious food. She had stolen the couch in Molly's room, who was nestled within her pillow and the figure of someone unfamiliar to you was sprawled on the wooden floorboards. He is a fair friend to Sherlock and John, and Molly is very fond of him, but I've never known him personally. He's the boastful, humorous, energetic Greg Lestrade.

"Well, you've never exactly been the skinniest of girls," the distinct, thick accent replied.

Pond raised her head slowly from the cushion, giving Lestrade the most appalled face she could muster. "I ought to smack you," her voice fired, making every syllable sharp.

"Oh please, it's called sarcasm," Greg explained, rolling his eyes and running his hands through his spikey hair. "Learn to take a joke when you hear one."

Altogether, the threesome heard the grinding of a set of tiny wheels coming round the corner, the person not in sight until John's blond crown appeared between the door frames. He was inhaling massively and his eyes were popping from his sockets.

"What is it?" Hooper questioned, tossing her long, silky locks over her shoulder, which she'd let down to dry out after a shower.

John jerked his thumb in the direction of the hallway, almost as if the news had drifted down a path and into my sleeping quarters where I was able to listen.

And then he finally managed to spit it out. "It's Dean. He's awake."

* * *

Sounds of beeps filled the older Winchester's eardrums as the consciousness transformed from pitch black to faded colors. At first they weren't even colors, they were gradients. The blues and reds mingled like some cinematography trick cameramen show in movies. His apple green irises found it relatively impossible to absorb the setting he was in because his mind had not reset from his encounter with me, Sammy.

Abruptly, as if a pair of car windshield wipers had scrubbed his vision clean, the world unfolded before him. A transparent tube snaked around his ears and connected in his nostrils, and a collection of about half-a-dozen wires slid under his hospital gown and were taped to his chest somewhere. The gentle palm of a hand rested on his collarbone, and he couldn't quite make out what sort of figure-fitting object covered his forehead. A semi blurry figure stood with perfect posture on his left.

"Is that you, Dr. Song?" my brother questioned, examining the mass of bushy curls sprouting from her head.

"Yes, sweetie," the adult comforted, stroking his cheek, which had sprouted a fresh, scruffy stubble from his previous shave. He couldn't quite interpret why she was avoiding the top of his head altogether.

"You were spectacular," River commented, leaning in closer to inspect her patient's status. "Especially for a man your age." He gave his doctor a weak smile in response.

"What can I say? I'm a natural," the Winchester wise-cracked.

There was a small 'humph' from the woman. "Brain hurt?" she wondered, spotting the surgery scar just above his ear. He raised a shaky finger to gingerly tap where his hairline was, only to find a stretchy material that wrapped his upper skull like a mummy.

"Bandages," Dean whispered, slightly irritated. Dr. Song let the teenager recharge his batteries a bit before noticing he'd gone a ghostly pale.

"I feel like I'm gonna throw up," my brother shared, letting his arm hit the mattress violently as he sank back and a rush of heat controlled his body. The adult pushed him back to a resting position, keeping the boy locked in a cocoon of blankets.

"Alright, Dean. Just relax." He closed his eyelids tight, squeezing them until wrinkles appeared close to his eyebrows. "Breathe in and exhale smoothly." My sibling did so, comprehending her orders as if he were in a yoga class.

"Your operation went well. We'll just discuss it later, okay?" The Winchester gave her a faint nod, feeling the tube scrap the inside of his nose.

Dean had no clue that he would fall asleep for another four hours.

* * *

When my brother had enough strength to wake up and remain in a conscious state without feeling limp, River Song gave Team Free Will permission to go visit him. Even my nurse, Mary Morstan came in to tell me about my brother's situation.

"Dean did very well with his surgery," she explained, checking my pulse and adjusting my duvet. "You know, not very many boys his age make it through with as many operations as he has. Your brother is…incredible."

"I know."

"You're hanging on too, little man." She patted my shoulder. Her light smile suddenly turned into a frown. "It's been three weeks now. You've got to snap out of it soon."

"I can't! I'm trapped!"

Mary recalled all the friends I had fighting for me. "Can I let you in on a secret, Sam?"

"You know I love 'em."

"I believe you're in there somewhere. You just have to, reach that last step, my friend."

Steps…

In reality, I see…a light at the end of this tunnel…

* * *

"There it is." An x-ray popped up on the display screen before Dean's bed, showing the outline of a head and the scribbly lines that made up a brain. His brain.

Not a single splash of color was visible on the MRI.

"Dean, do you know what this means?" my sibling's doctor asked. The Winchester stared, stunned. The next sentence, five simple words, would make my brother's heart fill with an endless supply of hope.

"We removed the tumor completely."

His mouth was agape, and he trembled in disbelief as he tried to get the words out. "Are you serious?"

River smiled. "I would not lie about life-changing news like this."

Dean had never let his emotions show so quickly in all his life, not even when he held me, his newborn brother, in his arms for the first time.

"And, I believe you have a visitor. He's been sitting outside all morning." She stepped aside to reveal the figure of a skinny boy, ruffled hair and blue eyes as distinct as always. Castiel gave a little wave, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.

"Congratulations, my boy," Dr. Song expressed, giving him one last punch before leaving the boys to their business.

"Hey," Cas muttered.

"Hey."

"Rough night I presume?"

"You have no idea," his roommate responded. The tube had been disposed of, leaving the taller boy to inhale air on his own.

"Bit overdressed, don't you think?" He indicated his message at Novak's suit. "Especially just for a visit."

"Oh." Cas glanced down awkwardly, speaking gibberish.

"Forget it," Dean chuckled, shaking his head.

Castiel crossed the room and settled in the stool on his friend's right side. "So, tumor free. How does it feel?"

My brother tried to hide his excited smile. His appearance made Novak show his teeth as well. "In all honesty," Dean began, leaning a little closer so Cas could examine his fictitious hazel irises, "it feels like a fantasy. Magical and real."

It may be hard to walk in someone else's shoes, but you don't always have to. In Dean's case, Castiel did the right thing. All he had to do was sit beside his recovering friend.

And later when Cas came into my room to celebrate the glory with me, he gripped my hand gloriously and praised, "Dean Winchester is saved."


End file.
